


True Natures

by your_bro_joe



Category: Hannibal (TV), Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 16:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_bro_joe/pseuds/your_bro_joe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles in which the nine mercenaries from Team Fortress 2 are serial killers who become acquainted with Hannibal Lecter in various ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Offense

"Do you really hate him so much for abandoning you?"

Scout twitches with nervous energy as he sits cross-legged in the chair across from Hannibal, keeping up his unaffected tone. “Not me,” he says, “not even my brothers. I hate him for abandonin’ my ma.”

"Is that why you killed him?"

"Yeah."

Hannibal rests his chin on his fist. “What about the others?”

Scout draws into himself.

"Always a couple. A man and a woman, in their twenties or thirties. Thin. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Their bodies posed in an everlasting embrace." Hannibal inclines his head. "Their skulls bashed in with a blunt instrument; the authorities suspect a baseball bat. Are you punishing him further?"

Scout swallows heavily, chewing on the bandage wrapped around his right hand.

"I just wanted them to be together forever."

 

* * *

 

"Jane," Hannibal says, hands shoved in his coat pockets against the bitter cold of the winter night. Jane looks up at him, away from the bloody mess in the snow.

"Hello, Doctor," Jane says, smiling. "Lovely evening, isn’t it?"

"Very nice," Hannibal answers, "but a bit chilly for my taste." He peers around the other man, to the body on the ground. "Who is this?" He asks curiously.

"Oh, him?" Jane says, turning back to his work, finishing slicing through neck muscles and finally disengaging the head from the body with a wet _pop_ of separating vertebrae. He holds the head up for the doctor to see, and Hannibal watches the blood drip down his forearms. "Well, I thought he was Merasmus—my old roommate, you know—but now that I look at him, I think he was just another hobo. Shoot." He scratches the back of his head, tilting his old army helmet further over his eyes. "Poor bastard. Oh well, another to add to the collection I suppose!"

Hannibal smiles. “Has your collection grown much bigger, Jane?”

"Oh, yeah. Got probably around twenty heads by now. Well, twenty-one," he grins, waving the one in his hand. The tongue lolls out, and Hannibal snickers.

"Impressive." He sighs after a moment, then becomes more serious. "I’ve come to warn you, Jane," he says, and Jane looks up from playing with the head. "They’ve found your hovel. You can’t go back there. They’ll find you too, and soon."

Jane’s eyes widen under the brim of his helmet. “What should I do?”

"Come with me," Hannibal says, "I have a plan."

 

* * *

 

"You have been burned before," Hannibal says matter-of-factly. Pyro nods, moving their shirt collar aside to show thick, corded burn scars.

"The flames have kissed me," they say, voice scratchy and deep, "as I have embraced them."

Hannibal inclines his head slightly. “You are not the only one to be embraced by flame,” he states, and Pyro nods slowly, warily. Hannibal laces his fingers in his lap.

"Fire is a mystical element, and has been considered such since antiquity. It has the power to cleanse, and to pave the way for rebirth. The Vikings burned their dead to aid them on their way to the afterlife." He pauses. "Tell me, are you reborn from their ashes?"

"No," comes that smoky voice from between layers of scarves, "I paint with them. "

Hannibal licks his lips, and smiles.


	2. Defense

"You and I are similar, Mikhail," Hannibal says, eyes on the back of the huge man at the window in his office. "We both endured the horrible suffering of our families." He looks down to straighten his shirt cuffs. "But your sisters survived. Mine was not so lucky."

"You were too young," Mikhail rumbles. "If you had been my age, perhaps she would have lived. It is a terrible thing." He turns to face the doctor and returns to his seat. "But you made them suffer."

Hannibal allows himself an indulgent smile. “As did you.” Mikhail returns it.

"And they will all suffer," he says darkly, cracking his knuckles.

"They will," Hannibal replies, lifting his wine glass. Mikhail follows suit, and they drink.

 

* * *

 

"A peculiar calling card," Hannibal says, leaning back in his chair, "to rig the crime scenes to explode once the body is disturbed."

Tavish laughs loudly at that. “Aye, keeps the carnage to a maximum. They investigate, snap all their photos of my handiwork, start clearing away the evidence, and ka- _BOOM_!” Tavish seems to explode himself with the gesture, and Hannibal flinches, causing the other man to laugh harder. “Takes a few more with ‘em, injures the rest.”

"You like carnage?" Hannibal asks.

"I like _EXPLOSIONS_ ; gibs flying every which way, blood like rain. I appreciate drama. That’s why I pose my initial victims."

"Well, the police have caught on to your theatrics, and are now bringing bomb-sniffing dogs to murders they believe are yours. Did you anticipate that?"

"Ach, I anticipated the caution, and I was prepared to enjoy their fear and surprise them with better, less detectable bombs; bombs harder to defuse, but then they brought the damn dogs in, and I couldn’t hurt the poor mongrels." Tavish’s face creases in a frown, and Hannibal lifts his chin a fraction.

"Why not?"

“‘Why not?’! Why bloody not, they’re just wee dogs! They never hurt anyone!”

"But the investigators have?"

Tavish laughs again. “All people hurt people. That’s the way o’ the world. All people suffer, and that suffering is caused by other people. Everyone has an unhappy ending coming to them. I just give them a bit o’ flair.”

 

* * *

 

"You should come for dinner sometime, Dr Conagher."

"Please, call me Dell. No matter how many PhDs I earn, that title never seems to fit," Dell smiles crookedly, and Hannibal lets out a light laugh.

"Dell it is, then."

The engineer nods. Then, “Is that such a hot idea, though? Seeing your psychiatrist socially?”

"I see several of my patients outside of the office. I find it helps build trust, and therefore aids your therapy," Hannibal replies, still smiling.

"So you analyze me while we’re eatin' dinner?" Hannibal laughs again.

"I keep my analyses to my office, not my dining table, don’t worry." Dell leans back and nods. "Besides, I would like to hear more about your machines, and I am not certain yet if that is an appropriate topic for your therapy. It would be selfish to waste your sessions on my curiosity."

Dell chuckles. “Well, Doc, you’re probably right, cuz once I start in on ‘em, I can go on for hours.”

Hannibal nods. “And I would not want to use your appointments for such things. Unless, of course, you feel your machines are hindering your recovery.”

Dell’s smile drops at that, and he scratches absentmindedly at the edge of his prosthetic forearm. “Now that you mention it, Doc,” he says, eyes dark behind his glasses, “I haven’t exactly… stopped.”

Hannibal leans forward. His expression is vicious, and his eyes are dead.

"Good."


	3. Support

“ _Eat_  them? Oh, no no no. What a waste! I’d much rather preserve them, and see what affects they can have on the next soul I come across,” Medic chuckles, and Hannibal’s lips curl in a thin frown.

"We have very different definitions of ‘beauty’, Doctor," Hannibal replies, cutting into the heart before him with much more force than necessary. Medic grins, sipping his wine and sitting on the counter beside the other surgeon.

"Ah, but are they really so different? The human body, the grand machine, working in chorus, drenched in blood. Oh," he sighs, lost in his own soliloquy, "to open that body; to see the innards as they pump and shake with life, and then to add to that canvas; to see how that machine reacts to the addition and subtraction of parts. Can a man survive with one lung and two hearts? The answer is ‘yes, but not for very long’!" Medic giggles at his cleverness, watching as Hannibal dissects a valve and removes it, stuffing the heart with a mixture of bread and herbs. He tuts his tongue.

"You see? Your food may be grand, but a heart filled with bread will never compare to one dripping with blood!" He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Though perhaps my birds would enjoy a heart filled with bread. Would you mind if I took some home?"

"I am not inviting you over for dinner again, Doctor."

 

* * *

 

"Hello, Spy," Hannibal says, not looking up from his drawing of  _The Conversion on the Way to Damascus_.

"I always hated that nose of yours," Spy quips, slinking out of the shadows and toward the doctor’s desk.

"If you want to be stealthy, you should really quit smoking. Someone with a less trained nose would still be able to smell you halfway across the room." He sets down his pencil and smiles at his guest. "Or you could stop wearing that horrible cologne."

Spy sighs. “You really are such a brat when speaking to someone on your bad side,” he says, withdrawing his butterfly knife and twirling it around his gloved fingers. Hannibal grins.

"I take it you’ve come here to kill me," he says cheerily, and Spy nods.

"Am I really so predictable?" He asks, gripping the handle of his knife.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, picking up his scalpel. "Shall we?"

 

* * *

 

"I think it would mess with anyone’s head after a while, don’t you? I mean, it’s a job but, it’s still killing people."

Sniper slumps in the chair, his fingers beating a steady rhythm on the arm rest. Hannibal stares but doesn’t comment.

"Taking a life causes chemical changes in the brain. The more one kills, the more accustomed they become to it." Hannibal looks at the other man’s face. "You have been in this career for decades. What has changed?"

Sniper sighs, tightening his grip on the arm rests and looking toward the high windows of Hannibal’s office. “I… can’t rightly say. Yeah, I’ve been doing this forever, but. Maybe it’s cuz work is scarce lately. But I just….” There is a faraway look in his eyes that Hannibal recognizes immediately. “I get the urge, between jobs. To. You know—”

"To take a life," Hannibal finishes for him.

"Yeah," Sniper admits, swallowing.

"Have you acted on these urges?" Hannibal asks clinically. Sniper looks reluctant to answer. "Remember that I cannot report past acts to the authorities, only threats of future indiscretions."

Sniper laughs despite himself. “Is that what murder is? An ‘indiscretion’?”

"Fine," Hannibal bristles, "future plans of murder." He straightens his waistcoat. "You still have not answered my question."

Sniper coughs, sitting up a little straighter. “Yeah,” he says quietly. Hannibal nods.

"Did it satisfy your urge?"

"For a while."

"How did you do it?"

"Same way as a hit. Found a target, picked ‘em off. Left."

"That sounds  _un_ satisfying,” Hannibal observes, and Sniper half-smiles at him.

"You suggesting I find a more satisfying way to murder people, Dr Lecter?"

"It may curb your urges for a longer period of time."

Sniper stares at him for a long moment, uncertain if he’s heard correctly.


End file.
